The pancakes got too cold somehow. It's like Seaman took all the heat from the room. And not only in the room, the shaten, too, as if he had re-qualified himself to the fridge. He has to move. This strange cold was already physically starting to stiffen.
The water stopped murmuring in the kitchen and the plates rang against each other, and then the locker door rang quietly. Dallon hurriedly wiped his hands and, filled with determination, left the kitchen. Determination somehow quickly began to flow away, as soon as the bass player put his hand to the door handle.
You just have to turn on the emotion control, as it always does, that's all.
Dallon closed his eyes and rolled them up to restore the system. Sounds like it helped. After opening his eyes and taking a deep breath, he opened the door to the room and headed for Ryan. He stood by the window, leaning against the window sill, looking at his shaking hands. Weekes approached him carefully and placed hand on his shoulder, which he suddenly pulled away.
"Does that make you uncomfortable?" Asked a bit confused Dallon, because Ryan was always a tactile man, especially for a shaten.
"That's not the point, Dallon. Opposite, I like it. But I really am forcing you to do all this. You don't have to take care of me, and you certainly don't have to put up with my antics. I... I'm just mediocrity, they were right, Dallon! You're so much better and more talented than me, you're so interesting and everything, and I'm... I'm just a burden, why you didn't leave me, why you're still messing with me, if you thought I was holding you back or somehow wanted to hurt you, not at all, really, not at all, I..."
Dallon came close and stopped this nervous and unfortunate tirade, holding Seaman in a firm embrace. He carefully stroked the top of his head and quietly pulled away from the window, sowing in the end on the bed, not letting go of the drummer from his arms.
"What they wrote was a complete nonsense, created only to hurt you. I've already started dealing with them. You're not forcing me to do all this- if you did, you know my character like no one else- I'd just walk away. And now about the mediocrity. Are you serious?! You created me, you know?! You're great at the drums, and I'm good at bass. But you created me, even if I play better than you on bass, even though you're great on drums, which I don't, you know you could create something better than yourself? This is unthinkable, Ryan! You're not a burden at all, how can you be a burden to someone without whom it just wouldn't exist? Please don't let those who say that make you believe it yourself."
To be honest, Weekes was trying to fight the worst anxiety right now because he wasn't sure if he'd said anything extra, if it sounded too rude. All Ryan was saying was silence. Not a single sound or movement. There was a deadly silence in the room, interrupted only by Dallon's intermittent breath. It was a scarecrow. The shaten detached himself from Ryan and squeezed his shoulders, looking into his eyes. The drummer looked completely absent, his eyes pointing somewhere at the bassist's shoulder.
"You did find out about everything... sorry."
Weekes pinned Ryan back on him and started stroking his back soothingly.
"Of course I found out. Why were you hiding it?"
"I didn't want you to worry, and I didn't want you to feel bad about these people either."
"Ryan, why didn't you think of yourself? I'm a lot easier at this than you are, and I'm a robot. Why don't you just share everything with me now and not hide anything, okay?" Dallon held his hands tightly in his arms and then, taking Seaman's face with his hands, suspended him, looking into his eyes again. They seemed to have become more full of life and the look was no longer so distant, so Weekes smiled carefully and stroked the drummer's cheeks with his thumbs.
"Deal..." Ryan said uncertainly.
Dallon smiled warmly and patted Siman on the head.
"Well, that's better. It's gonna be okay, I'm with you, I'm here." This time, the drummer himself clung to Weekes and squeezed him in a warm hug with his face on his shoulder.
Everything was going great. Ryan seemed to be on the mend, but he didn't specifically look at social media. And Dallon was happy about that, but the important thing is that this sun was okay. They even took a couple of walks together and went to the cafe they used to go to. They also watched a movie together. Ryan doesn't really remember which one, but definitely some science fiction movie because he fell asleep on about thirty minutes. But Dallon was still very happy.
The watch was halfway through the fourth at night. Ryan's been up for an hour. He just lies there with his eyes open, that's all. And he can't fall asleep. It's disgusting to be honest. Dallon's turned his back on him as usual, but you could say with absolute certainty that he was asleep. Seaman decides to go to the bathroom and wash, to get away from annoying, far from bright, thoughts. Ryan sits on the edge of the bed and prepares to stand up, as his gaze falls on the phone.
He thinks, takes it gently and puts it in a huge pocket of pajama pants.
Since the drummer's eyes had become accustomed to darkness in more than an hour, he easily navigated and reached the bathroom. His legs were a little smothered, so as soon as he went into the bathroom, he immediately closed the door and fell to the floor. He just wanted to lie down and cry. And probably disappear. He can't help but remember the phone that was in his pocket. Ryan took it out his shakening hand, unlocked it, and went into the first social media he found, anyway, Dallon seemed to have set up posts everywhere.
"Dallon, how much trouble is he bringing you, ugh, I'm with you."
"Ryan, go away from Dallon's account and stop holding him."
"Why don't you just give yourself a solo career if he doesn't, as you say, bother you and hold you back?!"
"Dude, don't be embarrassed, I thought robots were smarter than people, but it seems like Ryan couldn't even handle it."
Ryan quietly put his phone on the floor and stayed on the tile.
"I'm ruining his reputation. They don't believe him. They think he's stupid because of me. I'm messing with him. I'm really useless. He said all that just out of pity or so that I wouldn't spoil his mood with my depressing look anymore. He just wanted me to stop acting like an idiot and not be able to tell me directly that he was in trouble because of me. What can I do to fix it? Is there any way I can reach out to people and ask them not to touch at least Dallon? No, everyone's gonna come at me and not listen. I don't want to see it all pouring on Dallon all the time. I don't want him to put up with all this. It's all my fault... It's my fault why everyone's going at him and why is his reputation ruined? Well, of course he's protecting you, of course his reputation is ruined, you idiot. Why do you have to ask yourself that? You even ask yourself questions for the stupid. If I were dead, nobody would have gone after Dallon, right? I could just take away his problems because it's my fault, couldn't I? But people might think that Dallon was responsible for my death... it'll make things worse, though... There's got to be a way to get all the suspicions away from Dallon. If I throw myself off a bridge, for example? At night? While Dallon's sleeping? First, he'd have an alibi. Although that wouldn't take all the suspicions away. I can't let him get into even more trouble with the end of his existence. What if... fuck, no. What if I wrote a note? Write a little letter? It's like Kurt, only I'm really committing suicide, not getting killed. And no one will write a letter for me. Nobody's gonna remember about me and I don't have a family anymore... Dallon can quickly forget, he'll just take a few minutes to adjust a couple of settings, a few memories, that's all. He'll figure it out for himself. And the fans are gonna love it. That's great. Everybody's fine. I'm gonna go get a pen and a paper."
Ryan barely stopped going through his head to list the reasons why it would still be okay if he left and how to do it, so he barely got off the floor and opened the bathroom door. With sorrow he reached the bed in half and found a pen with a paper, he began to write his suicide letter.